


Someone Great

by ninthlife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epistolary, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-04 11:22:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14019195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninthlife/pseuds/ninthlife
Summary: John writes to Sherlock after he falls from the hospital. Good ol' fashioned Reichenbach fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's not too late to write a Reichenbach fic, right? Title comes from the LCD Soundsystem song of the same name.

Dear Sherlock,

I have been working on a book, since you died. As it turns out, you are in it. This probably surprises you less than it surprised me. You always had a knack for reading my thoughts. 

You fill up the page. You are my favorite character. You are everywhere; you make the story interesting. And my God, do I love you. You're always talking to me in my head. Your pulse appears under the words and you are almost alive again. It's the best part of writing. I can see you on that rooftop, or smoking a cigarette, or sitting at the end of my bed, resting your hand on my ankle.

You are imposing and predatory and ever-so-casual. You are the best at what you do. You have a wicked sense of humor. You're capable. You're a know-it-all. You're a bit vampiric, in the sexy way. I miss your general disdain for humanity. Humanity deserved it.

I hate hospitals.

I wish I had kissed you.

Dear Sherlock Holmes, I hate hospitals, I wish I had kissed you.

Maybe you don't want me, maybe you would have done something about it if you did. But I wish I had kissed you. I wish I had sunk into your lap in your chair and tasted your mouth, warm and wet. Maybe you would have let me. Sometimes it is too much to think about what I cannot have. Sometimes it is all I can think about.

But you are dead. I have you on paper. Warm and wet. An imitation. Half-you.

But you all the same.

I love you,

John


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Sherlock,

Ella is thrilled and fascinated now that I have opened up about you. I did not need to tell her the obvious parts. Sometimes, when I get caught up talking about something insufferable you did, like shoot the wall, she'll sit up, delighted, and say, "and you liked it!"

And I liked it!

It's like the world is teasing me. Do you have any idea how often you come up in casual conversation? Multiple times a week, with people who have never even heard of John Watson before. Unfortunately, most people think you're an arse. I agree with them, most of the time, but for different reasons, so it's not the same. I want to sit each of them down and explain who you really are, but it's exhausting enough to acknowledge that I know you. In my mind, you are a universe unto yourself. I like us best that way.

I met someone, Mary, who thinks you're a bit of a pig, from what she's read in the papers. I haven't told her. How could I? I'm sure you'd find my inner conflict amusing, if you were here.

Why do you have to be dead, Sherlock? Why did you kill yourself? I know you're not a fake, I just know it. So what was it? Fed up? Tired? Needed to disappear? To get away from Moriarty, or me? Was it me?

Could you just come back, please, so we can fix everything before you do something stupid? Come back so I can brush your hair from your forehead and kiss your neck and tell you I like the color of your eyes. Everything we didn't get to do, we'll do it. I'm there if you want me.

Love,

John


	3. Chapter 3

Dear S,

Have binned the book. Nothing personal - this is the fifth or sixth time that's happened. I throw words on the page but nothing sticks, and I can't make my mind up about the concept. Think I might be a shit writer. I'd say it was a mystery how the blog got so popular, but even I can solve that one.

Can't look at the blog. Can't stand anyone who didn't hear your voice on that phone. Now it's all just festering. And the best part is that nobody cares.

Knew I'd scrap it the moment I recognized you. I painted you wrong. You were the version of you I see when I'm not allowed to look. The half-you. I can't stand to look at you but I am always looking. So I play tricks on myself. And then I get frustrated by my own mistakes, and I make so many mistakes, and I wanted to write a story that would get me away from it all, just for a while, but we've really got to live with ourselves every single second, don't we?

Sorry I'm not very good at this. I've never done it before. It's like praying. I like it for the same reason I like writing stories: I hum my compositions all day. (The humming always sounds nicer. Sorry these aren't funny.) Of course when I'm not writing about you, I'm writing to you. It helps, though the space you occupy in my mind isn't getting any smaller. You wander through the rooms, turning things over. You're hovering over my shoulder. You're a trick of the light.

I'll write again later,

John


	4. Chapter 4

Dear Sherlock,

I can't tell Ella everything. It's nice enough to have someone to talk to about you. There's plenty to address without getting into the times I wanted to get my hands around your throat and shag you senseless in the kitchen because you burnt the eggs. Again. Again! Then you'd give me this look across the living room, like it was all my fault. And I'd be caught between thinking, he really needs something shoved up his arse, and what kind of man can't cook an egg? Would you like to be choked? And then I'd worry you could somehow read all this on my face, because I bet you could, so I'd stare at the paper without reading it, and then another night's gone by in silence where I didn't take the proper chance to enjoy what I had. And while I was thinking about all this, you'd go and burn another pan of eggs, just for the look on my face, probably, and I wouldn't mind! See? I simply love you, I do not understand it myself.

Ella doesn't push, though she's very interested in my life as flatmate of famous Sherlock Holmes. I'm an interesting client and my case is Sherlock Holmes, isn't that funny? And she let me leave the Holmes family situation at "crazy rich people bullshit" - her words, not mine. I still can't even think about Mycroft.

I tell her that I can't shake the thought of you. That I like you. I like having you wandering around inside my heart, you are interesting. Life is so boring. You understood that. Moriarty understood it. I understood it, too. I thought you knew that about me. I thought that maybe-

Well, it doesn't matter what I thought, maybe. You're gone. But you're a good man, Sherlock. I don't know what happened with Moriarty, and I never will, but I know you have a good heart. I know you. I can say so. Maybe if I say so enough, it'll bring life back to your face, and we can return to our rooms in Baker Street, and you will love me there. You were always a good man, Sherlock: funny, attentive, impetuous, smart as all hell, and a damn good detective. You were still a good man when you were a moody brat. But we covered that already. Just made me want to jump you. Stop burning eggs, asshole.

Sorry. Got carried away.

Sometimes I forget you're not coming back.

Yours truly,

John


	5. Chapter 5

Dear Sherlock,

The book is back on! Life is too boring without fiction. Mary invited me to host a local writer's group at Speedy's; we got a small crowd. You weren't mentioned once--see, you're not the center of my life. Nope, my universe expands to include weirdos in a sandwich shop. A paralegal with a fake flower in her hair compared herself to Tolstoy, which was the highlight of my week. I miss running around with you. (That much is obvious.)

I wish Mary would stop bringing you up. It's getting annoying. It's like she can sense that there's something I'm keeping from her, but I'm probably just paranoid.

I should talk to Harry, but I'm afraid she'll kill me. She keeps asking me to come and see her. Seems innocent enough, but somehow she'll get me drunk and confront me on her sofa, I just know it. She's like that. You should have heard her last time, right after you died. Absolute nightmare.

Can't believe it's been over a year since you jumped. You are as close to my heart as ever. You idiot.

Love,

John


	6. Chapter 6

Dear Sherlock,

Sometimes I wonder if I imagined you. I know, it's ridiculous, even Ella says that's ridiculous, but still, I wonder. I am a bit of a lunatic. Maybe I just needed you _that_ much, you know? Embarassing, but possible. My insane attraction to you, at least, is evidence of lunacy (another point that Ella disputes, but these are my letters). When you were alive I was afraid that you'd suddenly vanish. Leave my mundane world to go be somewhere more marvelous. When I lost you, the world lost its colour. Maybe it doesn't matter if I made you up or not.

I like you. I like your heart.

I never like anybody.

Lost my inspiration.

Goodnight,

John


End file.
